


Spoils for the Taking

by con_brio



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 02:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/con_brio/pseuds/con_brio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King's Landing is under siege by water and soon by land. Mycroft is the King’s Hand. Sherlock has been put under house arrest as his brother goes to meet with the coming army. John is Sherlock’s sworn shield and only he knows what lies ahead if the city is taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spoils for the Taking

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to fill a prompt, which can be found [here ](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/19743.html?view=118929695#t118929695)  
> Warning that there are some ASOIAF and GOT spoilers at the prompt. However, there shouldn’t be any in this fic as it’s a fusion not a crossover. I'm working in Game of Thrones’ world but will avoid actual characters.

John stood at the window of one of the airy chambers in the Hand’s Tower watching the commotion far down below. He felt as much as he saw and heard anxiety permeate the swarming crowds: a veritable thrum of unrest beat through the stifling midday air. Though theirs was caused by a very different set of troubles from those besetting John, the wild, hot pulse of it all perfectly matched the roar in his own veins.

And Sherlock - Sherlock, with his pacing and bouncing up and down, muttering and shouting to John as much to himself - certainly did not help matters. 

“What can his plan be?” His voice rose louder to compensate for his current location on the other side of the lavishly decorated room because gods forbid John not be able to hear him. Always eager to gain his attention, Sherlock was never more obvious or needy for it than now. 

John took a deep breath but didn’t turn to face him. No. No, he wouldn’t do that. Morning had been bad enough and Sherlock had been in a lethargic mood then. To keep out the dogged tendrils of wicked thought and famished craving was a constant struggle turned physical ache and John wouldn’t torture himself with the sight of Sherlock’s long and lithe form bounding, striding, making pretty little deer moves over furniture and floor alike. 

_If I look back at him now I’m lost._

Determined to watch the young lord only when necessary, John maintained at the tower’s window as if paralyzed, quiet, motionless. And all the while the locked beast inside raged. 

A seabird of some sort- John didn’t know the name – kept flying before his view. Back and forth, back and forth. It was nearly parallel with their floor and John could hardly miss it. Long white wings caught the breeze effortlessly so that it floated in graceful, careless sweeps above despairing men and women in a way that made John both envious and irrationally upset.

 _Why don’t you do something productive with your thoughts instead of letting them go and rot you from the inside,_ John nagged himself. He was good at that, badgering. He got on to Sherlock all the time for not eating, not sleeping, not minding his own damned business and dragging John into whatever mad escapades became inevitable. Mostly he berated Sherlock when Sherlock left, wherever, for whatever reason, without him. 

Unlike Sherlock, however, John actually tried following his advice. It was useless of course; he was no Sherlock Holmes, his was to protect and kill, not plan and strategize. All he had really was arguing and reasoning and with Sherlock those went about as well as with a cat. As for the truth of what was coming, he dared not. It wasn’t a matter of being believed – Sherlock had an uncanny way of detecting lies in a person anyway – it was the intolerable thought that for Sherlock, it would in no way dissuade or even bother him.

The crowd swelled. It was a good distraction, even if it was hard to see individualities from his position. He briefly considered using Mycroft’s brass Myrish eye lens but Sherlock exploited it for his games and puzzles and just the thought of such frivolities at a time like this made John twitch. Besides, the formless seething mass was kin enough for his taste. To see the flicker of desperation in their eyes would be too much. 

“Ravens, envoys, an army, _me_. Mycroft is the laziest arse in the seven kingdoms. He’d send our mother before he’d go himself. To face Talbot with just a minor retinue? No. He’s planning something.”

John looked down and saw unsurprisingly that the hand holding back the silk drapes was shaking. _How is it that a man’s heart can feel so heavy yet beat so furiously? Surely Sherlock must notice it but then he wouldn’t miss a chance to remark on it if he did._

Again John tried to focus his attention on what parts of the street his view allowed. A sudden scuffle broke out and though the voices were raised the distance made even their words little more than a drone to his ears. All John could tell was that it seemed to be between a group of small folk and sailors. There was talk of rampant smuggling taking place and John wondered how much the ships’ men were privy to and guessed that was what the peasants wanted to know as well.

“He knows the futility in making concessions with as someone power-starved as Sevester Talbot. A compromise of anything less than control of all seven kingdoms would never suit when the man’s poised to take it all. One might thing Mycroft is selling out the kingdom to ensure he stays hand if I didn’t know any better. No, Mycroft is concocting something. I need to know what it is.” An audible _whoosh_ of air told John he was missing a good show of lanky gesticulations.  
In a flash, Sherlock’s addressee went from vaguely John to only John. “I know you want to discover exactly what it is as much as I, John.” 

John exhaled noisily in a barely suppressed snort. 

Mycroft’s doings, however genuinely intriguing Sherlock found them to be, were little more than a convenient mystery to provoke John into helping him. For the past day the young lord had done nothing but alternate his approach: tantalizing suggestions of danger, mystery, getting one up on Mycroft, or of simply getting the chance to watch Sherlock be Sherlock. He sometimes put forward a galvanizing prompt on the importance of defeating Talbot for the greater good of Westeros, as if he cared. All of them came with furtive purpose, wind John up into agreeing to help break the restrictions placed on Sherlock, flee the city together and follow the Hand. If he weren’t acutely aware of the risk Sherlock was courting John would have jumped at it in a second.

 _I know you, Sherlock. I know what you really want_.   
Moriarty.  
Mycroft was just a piece of the puzzle. The goal was reaching Lord Jim Moriarty and solving for whatever schemes he was toiling.   
In refusing this though John had remained firm. Sherlock thought him pig-headed about trivial safety issues. It was all he could not to laugh at the bitter thought. True enough, copious dangers awaited inside and outside the city gates as thongs of people couldn’t decide if leaving or staying was a better option for life and limb. Never minding all that, and never minding the threats from the main roads and the back as well, it was their destination John retaliated against. Mycroft was headed for Talbot’s army, camped 20 leagues south. Moriarty, the would-be usurper’s councilor, lurked like a shadow, always by his side. 

And at Moriarty’s side was Ser Sebastian Moran. 

John could well imagine his cousin’s laughter when he realized John helped bring Sherlock right to him.  
He breathed deeply once more, this time the exhale came shuddering out. Sending a quick prayer to the Mother he slammed his eyes shut in hopes of relief and in its place got Moran’s gleeful smile and sneering words ringing his head like the clash of steel to a helm. 

At least it momentarily replaced his yearning. They worked that way, each taking its turn. Rage burned away the lust, lust drenched the rage, leaving behind an unbearable mix of anger and desire, humiliation and a _petrifying_ feeling of utter powerlessness. For an entire month these were his companions, sun-up to sun-down, and more often than not followed him into his dreams. 

He quickly fastened his eyes back to the crowd. Among those fighting were a young sailor and an old peasant. There shouldn’t have been any contest. The seafarer had everything going for him but it seemed none of his blows stuck. Even dead hits that should have sent the elderly man reeling only delayed him momentarily. He got back up, slowly but steadily, every time. Sadly, the gathering onlookers were more interested in sending encouraging whoops and hollers than stopping the brawls. John looked to see if any had more weapons deadlier than a fist but among some groups he could not tell.   
_I should be down there. Gods, better there than up here. At least it would give me something to do._

The fist at his other side clenched. It itched to grasp and hold something, or _someone_.   
Hitting might be nice, too. Yeah, hitting would work, and there were so many John felt like breaking his knuckles over, starting with Moran. But there were others. Moriarty. Mycroft. Half of the Kings Guard if he was honest. Seven hells, Sherlock had it coming himself if for nothing else than dragging them into this cesspit calling itself the capital five months ago. John made do with refirming his grasp on his sword’s hilt.

He forced in a breath, and slowly, back out again, and repeated.

In the exhale he felt it. There. Another second gone, another second nearer to their arrival. Another breath, another footfall closer to the gates. 

The surge of hubbub finally brought the attention of a couple of Goldcloaks who were pushing their way through the throng.   
Sherlock had rounded and nearly beside him as every circuit he took brought him closer to John’s position. John made sure to turn his head so that not even his periphery would be tempted. No doubt, Sherlock’s gorgeous height let him see over his shoulder to the short-lived fracas. The Goldcloaks had knocked down one man and were dragging away another. John couldn’t find the mismatched pair.

“Tonight, John.” He was so close - right there - voice a low purr in John’s ear.

“We should leave -- Tonight, John.”

 _Should_ John thought bitterly. There were so many _should’s_.

 _We should have left, yes. I should have gotten you out. I should have taken you away from here over a month ago when I had the chance, when it was still safe to leave the city. The moment I came back from seeing Moran I should have told you we were going back to Oldtown no matter what. Made you see reason. Hauled you up and dragged you away yelling and struggling if needed._

_But you didn’t_ a voice inside taunted. John set his mouth grimly.

Because by now it was much too late. John couldn’t risk a journey with an uncooperative Sherlock along roads where even savvy travelers and seasoned knights were getting attacked - reaved if lucky, beaten and worse if not. John wondered, knowing the man as he did, if some of those conflicts were even considered deterrents in Sherlock’s mind. Abruptly, a wall of carnal possession slammed into him, fiery and fierce, leaving a keen hunger roiling and surging low in his gut.

 _But what I really should have done is mount your hot, slim little body and fucked you with all my might, sunset to sunrise, every night, until you understood that you’re mine and how fucking much you mean to me. That. That is what I should have done the very night back from the alchemist’s. The second you told me, I should have taken you then._

John’s heart pounded. He tried to steady with another deep breath, caught Sherlock’s scent instead. His lord had taken a morning bath but it would have been better if he’d used perfumes or oils, his pure personal fragrance more ravishing by far. The Dornish wine their sept smuggled him wasn’t half so intoxicating. 

It was terribly hard to breathe all of a sudden. John felt dizzy, light-headed, unsteady, stultified by the warm stagnant air. A nasty press of thick _want_ held fast and aching in his groin, made him half hard. He was sweating profusely, too heavily to blame on the heat. An instinctual scrub of his face alleviated nothing.

 _Gods be good, don’t let me falter now._

But honestly…

…fuck that.

It was too much. He wanted to do a thousand things other than stand there immobile especially when Sherlock was still hovering, the tension between them stretching out, palpable and prickly. 

_Seven hells,_ John thought. _He knows what he’s doing, the tease. He’s doing it on purpose._

John gritted his teeth. He could feel those pale eyes studying him as if to spy out his secrets. 

_Well, if that’s what he wants so be it._

Restlessness seethed, coiling tight under his skin and he felt the contracting muscles of his hand longing for something pale and cool. He would go mad with inaction if he didn’t get some kind of relief. His other palm hurt where his fingernails bit through the silk fabric clenched tight. 

He lifted his eyes. Enough. He’d give Sherlock what he wanted and turn around and damn the consequences if John took something in return. 

_It won’t matter. Sherlock won’t mind. Not in the end. Not when it’s over. Not when it’s what he wants anyway._

A harsh _squawk_ split his ears, startling him. He came back to himself, resolve cut down. The seabird was but four arm’s lengths from the window and continued its screeching. John sighed, sagging slightly as the worst of the strain drained out. Silently, he thanked the gods for pulling him back to himself. He’d preserved. He told himself he should feel proud.

Sherlock withdrew from the window and began pacing once more. 

And began talking once more.

“I’ll have no problem locating the passage to take us outside the gates, even at night. Planned right we can leave when most of the rabble will be sleeping off the day’s hostilities. We’ll travel as goldcloaks I should think. The masses haven’t attacked them yet, though it’s only a matter of time…” 

And back to seeking Moriarty; back to forgetting John. 

He talked so cavalier, blithely, like it was a certainly John just had to accept; John’s opinion, his hardened decision in fact, didn’t matter. Bundled together and treated with as much significance as all those people Sherlock talked so callously of: people who happened to be starving and worried about the lives of their children and families. 

But this state of being tossed aside was blessedly something John was rather used to. So long as he could block out the rest he wouldn’t rise to the bait.

The worst of the quarrels had disbanded, though little of the crowd seemed mollified. Angry men spoiling for a fight but too scared to take on equal-sized opponents pushed aside easy targets: old men, crippled men, women, children. A couple approached a young woman carrying a basket and seemed entertained with its contents whatever they were. She tried shrugging them off but they persisted in going for her goods and then started going for _her_ goods. It happened so quickly John didn’t even see from where she pulled it - a pouch of her shabby dress, her smallclothes, or maybe the basket itself - but even from the tower’s window the glint was unmistakable. In an instant the dirk was pressed against groin of the primary aggressor. _Good for you,_ John thought. 

As he watched the woman’s boldness force the two men to fall back he was reminded of his mother. Beautiful, blond and fierce she was. She taught both her children the essentials of fighting if not the particulars of swordplay while her husband, the gentle Riverlands farmer she fell in love with, imparted them with the importance of hard work and sacrifice. The latter never stuck for Harry, but if anything they were the lessons John was most glad he took to heart. When life’s travails came along he was more than equipped to forgo niceties and extras, denial for the sake of duty. 

He endeavored to call up their faces. There. They came forward young and good-looking though a bit imprecise, edged by time. Until suddenly they resolved into clearer pictures, but - old, frail and haggard from illness, they looked up at John through dull, weeping eyes with dark bags underneath. His father was lying lifeless and mute except to cough crimson. His mother was tracking him with her eyes as he tried to keep porridge and water in her, muttering away what was left of her sanity. The strange outbreak killed them slowly for weeks but in the end took them just hours apart from each other. 

That was long in the past and his share of tears long shed. What remained was just lingering anger and resentment: towards Harry because she had refused to come back and help when they first took ill, leaving John sole caretaker; toward the Mother because no matter how many prayer he sent they remained unanswered; towards his parents because no matter how many remedies he tried, how much sleep he lost, how much he _loved_ them, they left him all the same. 

20 and alone and future hopes crushed, he harvested what he could of the intact crops, sold them and the house he grew up in, took the money, his mother’s sword and his father’s horse and headed for the Vale. 

John’s mind whirred, drunk on remembrance. It swept back . Pleasanter. Warmer. The memory that came now saw his parents young again, their faces whole with every particular recalled. 

His father smiled genially as he lightly plucked John’s seven-year old hand from the table. “No, son. That pie isn’t for us. That’s for the blacksmith so we can get ole Oatfinder reshod.” 

A scrumptious morsel, the dish of venison, barley, onions, and many strange aromatic seasonings wrapped in fresh hot dough made John’s mouth water. Gods, how he wanted a taste. Just a _taste_ was all. It seemed to whisper to him, taunting him, that dainty looking thing. For a woman so scornful of all things distaff no one was more surprised that Lora Watson herself to discover she had a gift for cuisine.

“Will it be enough you think?” John’s father spoke, voice worried. Concerned on his behalf, John turned to look up apprehensively up at his mother.

“ ‘Course it will,” she retorted. “Them Joltons are just like everyone else round here, secretly love anything they can’t sort out. Oh, they’ll ridicule it for not being proper but by the Father they’ll sidle back later and ask me what ingredients I use.” She leaned over to cup John’s chin and smiling said to him, “That recipe hails from the Vale, John. Your grandmother couldn’t carry a sword much less use one but bless the Seven could she cook.” John grinned, reassured. 

When his parents stepped out John stayed behind, never taking his eyes off the pie, half tempted to nibble, half eager to do the right thing. 

Harry blustered in. She had all of their mother’s temper but none of her wits. She made for the pie first thing. 

“No!” 

“Shut up, John,” she scolded.

John rushed between his sister and table but it was too late. She was bigger if not necessarily stronger being three years his senior and with a lunge of her arm grabbed and stuffed what she could inside her mouth. She’d polished off a good quarter of it before John was scarce able to blurt out protests about its intended purpose. John’s ire was mitigated slightly by the look of genuine remorse that passed over his sister’s face, that and the punishment Harry met with later.

Suddenly it shifted again. John was younger still, being lifted into the air by his sister, his hand reaching up and up and up for a fat, bright green apple.

A youth next. He was reaching above himself once more, but this time his hand was a fist and this time it was making impact with the jaw of an older boy almost twice his size. He felt a hard blow to his chest and hobbled backward. It hurt. But something inflamed inside and it didn’t even begin to dent his determination. This boy, this nasty _cunt_ , had put pitch on his dog and burned him alive, all because John had stopped him from robbing the miller and his family blind two days day before. The pain and hatred helped swell his strength and the next time his fist collided he felt the satisfying crunch of the boy’s nose.

A touch older. The enjoyable tingle about his hand was now the glorious feel of clutching a sword as he brought it down on his mother’s blade. The reverberations went all the way up his arm and to his shoulder. It felt so right he could laugh. 

Her name was Sunteen and fitting, with her fair hair cascading down to his chest she looked just as sun-drenched as the butter flowers he had picked for her earlier that day. He rolled her over and they both laughed brightly. 

“Are you paying attention, John?” The venom in Sherlock’s voice tore John from his reflection and before he knew it he turned around.

It could only have been a few hours that John’s moratorium on looking directly at Sherlock had lasted, but even so he found Sherlock looking better than he remembered, young, lush, appetizing. He wore, however, a look of such affronted arrogance that for a moment John feared he _had_ missed something important and felt a pang of guilt. The expression changed. Sherlock’s sex-made lips curved upward in a smile, patently smug, and just like that, having gotten what he wanted, in smirking triumph he turned back around, the pivot of his feet showcasing the altogether _too_ pert arse not even a flowing Myrish silk dressing gown could hide when he moved like that. 

But John didn’t take a step toward him, nor did he do anything he feared he might. He stayed locked in place and it came to him. It didn’t come purposefully but it came all the same. 

The vision _seared_ across his mind so very alive and vibrant, as real it seemed as the warmth on his skin and the squawk to his ears. It was dark and filthy and primal, and utterly the one thing John wanted most in the world. 

John’s got him, that young, tight little body, naked and claimed, ironed against the far wall with his long thin legs bent and hooked over John’s shoulders, and John’s prying open his prize in a tortured, long, difficult drive. Sherlock’s making strange delicious noises that shouldn’t be allowed by the seven. Gurgled whimpers. Helpless yelps. Panted moans. His hands and heels scrabble against the wall and John’s shoulders and back, to escape the brutal impalement or press for more he can hardly tell, and doesn’t much care because when John’s finally _finally_ in to the hilt he adjusts his stance, his grip, Sherlock’s thighs, Sherlock’s hips, and waits until their eyes meet, and then…then John starts to _fuck_ him. 

Splintering, desperate cries of John’s name are the only things coming from that ripe mouth now. Pristine white skin that never sees imperfection is flushed and bruised and spoiled with as much John’s sweat as the boy’s own. Sherlock’s squirming and arching, flopping like a snared rabbit, neck bared stretched taut as his body is slammed up the wall before being yanked down and forcibly positioned for the next deep thrust. Of all things, John’s most entranced by the way Sherlock’s long curls spring, sweat-drenched not affecting their bounce and recoil in counter to the violent impact of John’s cock pounding inside his body. 

It goes on forever, the fuck. Or at least it seemed that way to John. He didn’t mind. He simply watched, entranced by his other self, waiting…waiting… Eons pass for less than an eye blink. Just when John sensed as much as witnessed the pace turning ferocious, the mounting approach that was so desperately wanted, needed, _ached for_ , it stops. Ends before John gets to. 

Gone. 

Over. 

Everything - the visceral sights and sounds, the blissful hot feeling - disappeared completely. He was standing just as before and the room appeared to him as it truly was. The place against the wall where Sherlock writhed prettily, the world’s sweetest little fuck, was empty. Sherlock himself was still harping as before, canting about the room, sweeping his arms outward and upward.

And John. His mouth was dry, a hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach, his hands both white with strain. He looked down to see the ruin of the velvet curtains crushed in his hands and wondered distantly if Sept Hudson would be upset or very upset. 

Mostly what he felt was alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for errors and typos as I don't have a beta (need one) and I may have forgotten crucial details about the GOT world. Please let me know if you see any.


End file.
